


in your very own symphony

by kimaracretak



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bondage, Enemy Lovers, F/F, Horror, Hunters & Hunting, Romance, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29281911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/pseuds/kimaracretak
Summary: "You should be flattered," Thuringwethil counters, "To know that for you alone I would change my skin."Aredhel scoffs. "Steal another's skin, more like."(Be careful what you hunt. Or don't.)
Relationships: Aredhel/Thuringwethil (Tolkien)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11
Collections: 2021 My Slashy Valentine





	in your very own symphony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aipilosse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aipilosse/gifts).



The woods are redolent with life, the sort that fills Aredhel's senses as she moves silently from tree to tree, tracking her quarry. The scent of spruce and oak weighs heavy in the air and on her mind, though not thick enough to drown out the birdsong filtering through the branches. The lingering depressions from the prints of the stag's hooves are limned with water from the previous night's rains, and they catch the sunset light in vivid reds and golds.

Even the leaves seem to breathe with the slight brush of wind overhead, contributing their own minor notes to the song of the woods as they shift against each other, bend under the light weight of a bird's feet, snap from their branches and drift down to catch in Aredhel's hair as she clears a patch of dirt small enough to sit on and sinks back against a trunk to wait, and watch.

And then, at the edge of Aredhel's shadow, subtle enough that she almost doesn't notice, movement from something that was distinctly - _else_.

Not living, not hiding, not hunting. Aredhel holds her breath, curls her fingers into the soil and waits to see what the ground will tell her. The carpet of pine needles shifts, responding to a presence without a name or a shape, and under the sound of the wind - for Aredhel realises now that the birds had grown quiet as she walked - she slowly becomes aware of the faintest hint of laughter.

Aredhel breathes out, not quite sure she should call the feeling that washes over her relief. Not life, no, but also not unfamiliar - and in the woods, that counts for perhaps more than she is willing to give it credit for. She casts her eyes up through the branches above, searching for the telltale signs of Thuringwethil's presence: a set of twigs bent outwards and around into an ever watchful eye, leaves that had withered and died yet still clung to the trees, shadows whose depth belied an age and source that was not remotely of this world.

She sees nothing, and that means, equally, nothing.

"Vampire," she says, and her voice is loud to her own ears, loud enough that she is almost surprised the sound doesn't send small animals running for safety. Perhaps they have all long since fled - when she thinks back to the last hour of her hunt, she remembers only the footprints.

The shadows above her twist, and Aredhel hurries to her feet, steps forward gracelessly but quickly enough that she is not caught by Thuringwethil's claws as the creature plummets from the air, wings unfurling red-black like finest leather to catch her at the last moment.

"Huntress," Thuringwethil says with a smirk. Her wings curve back around her body as she gives a mocking curtsy, and the simple motion seems to sweep away the remaining light, all yellow and gold fleeing into the folds of her cloak and body and seemingly inviting Aredhel to follow. But though the light dims, Thuringwethil's eyes remain, pale and blank as she regards Aredhel. "You're far from home."

Aredhel opens her mouth to protest, for surely she had not strayed further from her usual paths than she had thought, but as she takes in her surroundings - truly takes them in, the towering trunks and the red-brown rot of fallen leaves, all the world beyond the hoofprints that the stag had left, she realises that Thuringwethil has the right of it, for once.

And she takes in the twist of the vampire's lips, the low-cut bodice of her jerkin, the way the lines of her face have been smoothed into something almost resembling pretty, so unlike the scarred visage she had once fought against.

Realisation comes as the sun takes its final step under the horizon, darkness shrouding over them like a lover. "I never hunted a stag."

Thuringwethil laughs, deep and clear and it pierces Aredhel to the bones, awakening the thrill of the hunt in a way she had missed during the long slow walk from step to step in the earlier light. "No," she says, "But you can hardly be blamed for thinking you did."

She extends her leg, and Aredhel's eyes fall to the perfect stag's hoof that has taken the place of the boots she had worn the last time they met.

"I should be insulted, to think you doubted I would be able to find you in your true form."

"You should be flattered," Thuringwethil counters, "To know that for you alone I would change my skin."

Aredhel scoffs. "Steal another's skin, more like."

Thuringwethil smiles, the closest to innocent she could ever be. "Ah, now, that would be telling," she says, which is close enough to an admission that Aredhel counts one more point to herself in this game they cannot seem to extricate themselves from.

"Then change again," Aredhel commands. "I found you once again, I deserve your face. I deserve all of you."

Thuringwethil does not respond aloud, but her fangs lengthen, catch on the curve of her bottom lip and bring a single bead of blood swelling to the surface. Her eyes narrow as her cheekbones rise higher and sharper under skin that begins to stretch and pale with the effort of holding in everything Thuringwethil is and could be. 

And as she transforms, desire rises in Aredhel's throat, the same desire she has tried in vain to choke back for years. By all rights she shouldn't have gone this far into the woods: she knows this, deep in her bones where the marrow shades into dust. She knows that by coming this far she's given Thuringwethil 

Knowing she shouldn't go into the forest doesn't mean anything when it - when Thuringwethil - wants her so much.

Aredhel's own wanting bleeds out around its edges, like roots and vines winding their ways upwards from the soil and then forwards like the world is there for their taking, like they've come from somewhere different and are so, so glad to be home.

She has a home and a family and a life and a world outside of these trees and none of that matters because there is Thuringwethil in the woods, crowned in nightshade and humming deep in the back of her throat, saying, _come here, little one_ , like her wanting is the only thing that matters.

(It is. Tonight, every night, it is.)

Thuringwethil steps forward, and Aredhel back, once and again until Aredhel's back is pressed once more against a tree, the rough bark prickling her skin through her dress. When had she unstrapped her quiver?

"Is this what you wanted of me?" Thuringwethil whispers, her voice barely a breath on the breeze.

Aredhel nods, and is rewarded by Thuringwethil reaching out and running one long claw-tipped finger through her hair. The braid unravels at her touch, and Aredhel holds back a whimper, head spinning with thoughts of all the other ways those hands could unmake her. All the ways in which she might unmake Thuringwethil in return, peeling back all those layers of stolen skin to find the beautiful creature beneath.

Thuringwethil's other hand strokes roughly up her leg, dragging the fabric of her dress with her and bringing Aredhel's thoughts back to the moment. The moon is rising, glinting off the white muslin and the curve of Thuringwethil's teeth as she bends to bury her face in the crook of Aredhel's neck. "You smell of the woods," she says, and then, as her fingers trace the curve of Aredhel's hip and dip between her legs and under her smallclothes, "And you feel as if you have been thinking of me the whole time you've been out here."

"And?" Aredhel asks. She knows Thuringwethil's fingers have found slick, knows, too, that it will not be nearly enough to satisfy her.

"And I think I will play with you, little huntress. I tire of always being the one found."

The pressure of her fingers eases, and now Aredhel can't hold back the sound of discontent that slips past her lips at the loss. 

"Less of that," Thuringwethil says, and it's only as she speaks that Aredhel feels the brush of leaves against her legs, looks down to see the rope of ivy in Thuringwethil's hands, curling around Aredhel's legs and binding her to the tree as if it had a life of its own. "You'll stay where I want you to, little huntress. And you'll thank me."

Stay she will, as the vines wind cool and almost soothing around her legs; a contrast to the bark scoring thin lines down her back that has her leaning forward into the sensation - leaning further into Thuringwethil - despite herself.

Thank her - Aredhel doubts that, but as Thuringwethil strips her of her smallclothes, parts her roughly and presses hungry fingers inside, she can't deny she looks forward to the process of finding out.


End file.
